You know what? This Christmas sucked. Yes, it did. D's dad was in hospital on Christmas Eve having had a heart attack. He missed family dinners on Christmas and Boxing Day; in fact he was in there nearly a week and to be honest? Horribly, horribly honest? I doubted his survival. I braced myself for the absolute worst. He was in nearly a week, confirmed heart attack, had an operation 2 days ago. Thank the very gods, he is now home and appears to be doing well.

I was shitting myself. I couldn't cope, I didn't know how to help. I didn't know what to do. On top of that, of course I barely saw D and he barely saw his babies over the whole Christmas period; this is still the case. He's pretty much working every waking hour. And there's so much more he has to do, and quite unfairly as well.

And then, remember this post? You know, where I laid all my shit out there? Told it like it is? Sat back and waited to be slammed, and instead you were all fucking lovely?

Wait... I'm sorry...where ALMOST all of you were fucking lovely?

Well it turns out some people can't handle the truth. I can handle the truth. I can deal with my faults. I know I have plenty of them. I know I'm most definitely not always in the right. But I tell it like it is, because that's HOW IT IS.

You know who you are. Everyone else knows who you are. You named yourself.

So when I'm rejoicing over the fact that my Pa In Law is out of hospital, you know what's really fucking inappropriate? Leaving a shitty comment, about your OWN SORRY ASS, on an update about my family living to see another day (THANK GOD) and trying to bring me down with you. And then? Doing a fucking runner. "Unfriending" me. Leaving your shit on me and DOING A RUNNER. You are one of the most childish people I have ever met.

You know what? If you had balls? You would have left that comment, and stayed around, to take the shit that was so deservedly coming your way. Instead? You just proved your worth.

In fact? You proved you're worthLESS.

2009? I am sick of you. I have had enough of you. Matter of fact? This entire decade? You can go suck my balls.

Because you know what? I have balls. I have big hairy CAHOONAS and you? Mr I -Still-Haven't-Named-You-Because-I-Am-Not-A-Loser-Like-You? Can go suck them. And so can you, year 2009.

Because 2010? Is a whole new time. And I've got lots in store. And if anyone wants to fuck with me in that time? Well go ahead and BRING IT.

I'm ready and waiting for you.
How long does it take? After having children, when do you remember that there's more to you than just being a feeding machine? Where, even though rolls of skin still plague you (if like me you're unfortunate to suffer that issue), does the point come where you actually feel like a sexy beast again?

At the moment I look and feel less like this:

And much more like this.

For two years I was a lapdancer. And a HOT one at that. And I'm not biased. I made my money dammit.

Right now? Whoopi Goldberg would be a hotter dancer than me. Sometimes it feels like the only thing I have going is my boobs. But even THEY are milk boobs. In about 4 and a half months they're going to be flimsy empty boobs.

Everyone says it's too early to worry about it. It's only been 7 months. Yes. I know. I'm well aware. It doesn't happen overnight. But you know what? I haven't lost a pound in weight. Not One. Single. Pound. There are some days where all I get to eat is whatever I have at teatime in the evening. I'm not starving myself, I can assure you of that. More often than not, I don't get a CHANCE to eat. Not a proper meal, anyway. Today? I've had a wholemeal bread roll with some cheese. No butter. And then I feel like I should eat more. But instead, I end up running around after the kids (*sigh* the kids...) and forget to eat. And then I'm not even hungry.

I miss the Jay who felt reasonably attractive WITHOUT having to make a huge effort. And by huge effort, I mean buying out shares in Max Factor. I miss the Jay who had a confidence in the way she looked, and didn't feel the need to rely on compliments of others to feel good.

Beauty is on the inside. I'm well aware of that, but I don't even feel much of THAT at the moment. But what does it take to go from Crummy Mummy to Yummy Mummy? What do all the hot moms do out there?

And also, whoever stole my Mojo? I'd like it back please.
I was determined not to do a miserable post. I'm trying so hard to enjoy Christmas week. Then the days started slipping by, and Christmas day was fast approaching, and I knew I hadn't blogged, and wanted to blog something happy.

Yesterday proved my point of how you just can't let your fucking guard down at any time.

D was due home from work on Christmas eve at about 2 pm. At 1:57, he's at the door, and as I open it for him, I instantly (and gut wrenchingly) see that something is wrong. His dad, my father in law, the first real father figure in my life, has been taken in to hospital, with suspected angina or a heart attack. D doesn't even get to come in the house to see the boys; I turn him around and tell him to go to the hospital to be with his dad.

I had my mom here to help me and spend time with the boys. Noah started acting up throughout the afternoon; he knew something was wrong. D made it back about 2 hours later, and was home for 30 seconds when his sister in law called and said she was very worried about how his mum was coping.

D pretty much didn't see his boys yesterday. He missed their bedtime routine, and missed taking Noah round the houses to see their crazy Christmas lights.


I'm really not lying when I say crazy.

Seriously. No kidding.

However, I digress.

D didn't get back until 8:30pm last night, and because he'd been working since 5 am, he was so exhausted, he pretty much ate a bit of food and then fell asleep right on the sofa.

I felt so bad for him, because I didn't know what to do; there was nothing I could do expect be there. I'm really crap at "being there" for people. I never really know what to say, and when I do offer up advice/info, it's quite often ignored.

Today, has been lovely. Pa in law is stable, but they might operate on Monday. We're not sure yet.

Noah has been FANTASTIC. He's opened half of his presents, wasn't interested in any more because of one particular gift. He also ignored the santa stocking loaded with toys at the bottom of his bed, favouring instead, the Christmas lights we left on in his room so he could see what he was doing.

So we had to kind of compensate by bringing him to our room to pick out his stocking fillers.

Which he seemed to enjoy.

Isaac has chowed his way through all manner of crap this morning and we don't care; it keeps him happy, and especially as he seems a bit under the weather at the mo (teething? ear infection? puberty?) But he's enjoying the fruits of Noah's stash; they're being really lovely and actually playing together. It's fucking awesome.

D's just handed me my Christmas card; inside is $80 US, ready to put towards Blogher10 next year. That and a new camera lens, some jewellery and a photo mag subscription among other things, and I'm fucking chuffed with my haul.

D is thrilled to bits with his speciality cognac glasses, bottle of Remy Martin XO, fancy chocs and Mr Tickle t-shirt (Noah's favourite character, and very happy as he had just opened his Mr Tickle pyjamas).

Thankfully, we ALL seem to be having a good day so far.

Merry Christmas...
Yesterday was the Nanny's last day until the new year, and when she comes back she's only doing 2 days a week until Noah starts pre-school. I have them on my own today.

For some reason, I'm terrified. It's times like this when I wonder if I shouldn't have had the Nanny to help me out in the first place. Like somehow, I should have taken care of my own shit. For all the shit that was hitting the fan, for some reason it feels like I was making excuses. Like I have to defend myself. But I don't know to who.

Somehow, I need to learn to take charge of my shit. Right now, I'm just too scared to leave the damn house.
Right now I should be writing the happiest post ever. Instead I'm sat here at my computer, once again feeling utterly horribly low.

This morning my little sister gave birth to her first. She did brilliantly well, having laboured through a failed epidural, and pretty much in labour for I think, 24 hours. She asked me to be there, to help coach her a little bit, get through the contractions and support her as best as possible.

And I so wanted to be there for her. But for some reason, the whole event started to make me realise how fucking spineless I am. I don't know why, but for some reason, her partner seems to take great pleasure in making me a scapegoat; it's a big joke, and for all my ailments and physical problems, I become a great source of humour and entertainment for them. And I say them because once my mother joins in, it's like a free-for-all.

So why am I bothered? I can laugh at myself, right? Hell isn't that what this blog has become? A place where I list all the impressively stupid things I've done so we can all have a laugh at my expense? Well last night it hurt. A lot. And I felt annoyingly stupid for it too. Why can't I just get a fucking spine already? Why can't I just deal with this shit?

Maybe he didn't understand or appreciate that I had my own shit to deal with too. I had left the boys with the Nanny at 10am yesterday morning, and hadn't seen them since. Of course, Noah chose to eat an entire pot of Baked Beans for the Nanny. He and Isaac were great all day for the Nanny. And once again I felt like a failed mother. I felt two of my old friends, guilt and depression.

Maybe he didn't understand that everyone else had had sleep at some point; I couldn't because there was nowhere for me to sit and rest without being in agony with my goddamn hips and pelvis (falling down the stairs a few days earlier does nothing to help this problem by the way). He probably also didn't realise that I hadn't boobed in something like 15 hours and was in no mood to take shit from anyone, apart from the one person who was in a stupid amount of pain (her epidural failed - it fell out. Wtf???)

I understand he had other concerns, but why am I such a fucking laughing stock? I was there to SUPPORT them, not be his comic relief. But like the story of my life, I didn't say anything to him or my mother. How could I? I wasn't gonna shit on his day and she can barely take much these days herself. So who do I vent at in the situation? Well I don't. Suck it up, take it outside, cry a bit, then go back in and hit head on. Story of my fucking life.

There are lots of issues bothering me right now, and none so much as the gaping issue of me staring into that old Slippery Slope. I've felt it creeping up on me for ages, months now, but have that distinct feeling no one would understand or perhaps, believe me when I say I think there's something wrong. This isn't just tiredness, but something is wrong. I've become so good at shoving it aside that it doesn't get dealt with anymore, and so it just sits in the corner quietly festering away

And I can't deal with it. Everytime I suggest that I might be sinking, someone responds in such a way that makes me think or feel like I'm just being weak. We're allowed to be weak aren't we? Everyone has moments of weakness, right? Is it so wrong that sometimes I just want to give in to my weakness, let it wash over me, take me back to that place of nothingness where I don't physically or mentally deal with anything?

Sometimes I long for that place. I didn't care about anything. Anything. I would wake up, not even move, because I couldn't, I wouldn't, barely inhaling into the black shroud over my head. It was an oddly comfortable shroud because it felt like it shielded me. It hid me. It protected me from everything and protected everything from me and I didn't care. I haven't worn that shroud for a long time, and sometimes I think I miss it, but I'm not sure. It was easier letting someone else sort everything out; I didn't have to deal with anything. It didn't feel like I had to deal with anything.

Is that wrong? Is that selfish? That wanting to go to sleep, to hide myself away and not have to be visible to anyone? I think my problem is I just don't know how to look after my shit. And so it's easier to hide.

Which is sad, because in all honesty? Sleeping tablets shouldn't look this appealing from my point of view. But that's the easiest way, isn't it? Drift off into a long black sleep, right? Then I can wake up later, maybe, and someone else has sorted out all the shit. Or maybe I don't wake up, and don't have to think about this shit.

Maybe it's Christmas. Maybe I have spent so many years running around trying to make sure everyone's playing Happy Families, and busted my own ass so many times in the process that I can't physically do anymore. I know I can't do anymore. I feel like I'm constantly putting myself out there for others to keep them happy, but no one helps me take care of my shit. And then when I DO try to take care of my shit, I feel guilty and selfish for abandoning everyone else.

Why do I do this to myself? Who did this to me? Why the fuck does it happen? Did my parents do this? Is it because of them why I'm this way? Is it just me? Am I just fucked up, broken, damaged goods? Have I served my time and now that's it for me, finite? I need that light under the shroud. I need cushions at the bottom of the slope. I don't see them yet. I don't know who could pt those things there for me. Hell I'd just like to know how to put them there myself.
Dear Noah

I love you. I love you so very much. And because I love you so much? I'm also sorry. I'm sorry that I couldn't always do my absolute best for you. I'm sorry for the days when I broke, and even with your little concerned face, and patting and rubbing my back to try and make me feel better when you didn't even understand, it was sometimes you who somehow put me back together a bit.

I'm sorry if I ever lay too much on you. I have so much on my plate and I don't know how to let off steam. I try not to cry in front of you, but even though you're not yet 2 years old, you know, somehow, when I'm desperately sad.

You're such an amazing little boy; you blow me away with just being you, every single day. I bust my ass for you, trying to make sure you have the best upbringing and home life I could possibly give you. I try to make sure you have a bit of fun. I try to make sure you eat right. I try to make sure you don't get ill, and when you do get ill, I hope to make it go away and ensure you're strong enough to get through it as fast as possible.

You love your brother Isaac so much, and I love so much when you give him toys to play with, pick up his biscuit if he drops it, show me the sign for tears when he's crying, and look at me with great concern when he's clearly distressed. I never taught you any of that, no one did. You did that yourself. You amaze me. Every day.

I feel like I've failed you sometimes, and you're only two. I still feel like your carer, not your mother. I feel the same with Isaac too. Yet you unconditionally continue to give me hugs and kisses, and they are so, SO sweet. Somehow, yours are better than any I've ever known. And yet still I feel bad for us.

I want you to know that I did try my hardest. All the time. I try to fight for you whenever I can, for whatever reason. I've made so many mistakes, it's untrue. No one tells the mom what to do, the mom has to be the one to give out all the instructions to everyone else. So therefore, I learn by making all the mistakes. I don't want to screw you over. I don't want to make you neurotic like me, fretting ridiculously over every little thing that shouldn't plague your mind.

I hate that I might make you grow up before your time. I hate that thought so much. I don't want to turn you into something horrible; I don't want to take away your childhood. You deserve your childhood so much; I didn't have much of mine. I hope to make it up for you.

You will always be great Noah, you will never be anything less. I just always hope that I can be a part of it, to maybe hope I contributed to it, and that you'll be anywhere near as proud of me as I am of you.

I love you baby boy.

Mom x
One of the things I've noticed about blogging (and even on twitter) is how obsessed people can become regarding how many followers they have, how many comments they get, and how much traffic they're generating. I'm also intrigued by those who don't have much of the above, but can't seem to figure out why.

In terms of twitter, you'll get more feedback and conversation going pending on the number of followers you have; more followers subjects you to the public a little more, and of course, the more you interact with them, the more interesting an experience it becomes.

Supposedly. For some.

In terms of blogging, I understand that the ideal is to blog regularly, whatever "regularly" might be (several times a day? Several times a week? Once every month at exactly the same time?). It also helps to make yourself accessible; having an easy to read blog and being able to comment freely should you choose to do so.

Lately I've raised the question of profiling (in a fashion) through a blog. What does it take to raise blogging stats? What does it take to get hundreds of comments? How do you appeal to the public? How do you get the public to respond and/or relate to you?

When I asked the question on twitter, the feedback was interesting, and I could see what they were saying just by looking at my own statistics on my blog. Some people lurk and choose not to comment. Some people comment when they only want to bitch about something. Some comment all the time because they don't have any where else to say what they want to say. And then some comment often because they just genuinely have something to feedback on, or whatever. There are obviously more, but these seem to be the general categories.

I'm thrilled that the visitor figures for my blog have risen lately, however I've noticed the drastic increase in spam and anonymous comments as well; you may have noticed lately that your comments take a while to appear. After having received several racist and extremely inappropriate spam comments, I had to lock things up a wee bit. Disappointing, yes, but expected at some point.

Interestingly, many have said that blogger was not particularly friendly to commenters; there are so many formats out there; for me, Blogger just seemed to be the best place to start, way back when. But for a while I've been toying with the idea of Wordpress, or some other format. Not just because I would like more people to comment on my blog (which would be nice, you know, let me know ya'll are out there), but also because I'd like this to be as approachable as possible to all readers. I feel a bit...like...this is for everyone, you know?

At the end of the day? Would like to hear your feedback.

Just sayin'.
I love twitter. I truly do. If I could marry it, or sleep with it, or cuddle it occasionally, I would.

As a result of twitter, in this last week I have spoken to Andi Peters, Philip Schofield, Jonathan Ross, Alyssa Milano, Robert Llewellyn, Rob Brydon, Gia Milinovich and Krisnan Guru-Murthy. And in doing so, I've raised £800. I have £200 to go (two more celebrities to make £1000, as sponsored by @makesmilk).

And of course, who can forget that Twitter is responsible for my epic stalking of Stephen Fry. Quite possibly one of the best 10 hour stints of my life.

Also thanks to twitter, I'm now into my 32nd hour without having gone to bed for proper sleep. I've accumulated about 3 hours sleep in this time frame, and I feel like shit great! Added to that the Universal Case of F.O.F going round myself, Noah and Isaac, makes for a very happy household indeed. Not. But anyway.

Twitter is also responsible for some very awesome friendships with people I probably would never have met otherwise. If I haven't listed you, it's because I'm too lazy to post more links into text. Sorry. But you know who you are, and there are so many of you. And I'm in love with each and every one of you.

However there were plenty more people on twitter who helped me find my beans. And rejoiced with me when I found my beans.

There are also things which might and/or will happen, because of Twitter. Lovely things. Great things. Pretty cool things.

Like Blogher10 (OOOOOMFG) next August. I watched everyone tweet their way through it this year and it looked like one of the most awesome gatherings EVAH. Right down to the after parties, all through conferences, and, uh, Sparklecorn. There are people I CANNOT WAIT to meet at Blogher 10, and I'm wondering if there are ways to meet up with people who can't get there.

Also cool, is recent sort-of almost maybe-it-will-happen conversations with Karl Erikson, and his hilarious talk show, Secondhand Radio (I have no idea why it's called Secondhand Radio. I must ask him sometime).

I know some of you hate it. Some of you are Facebook whores. Some of you even go to the dark side and worship MySpace. But that's ok.

Twitter has shown me some good times. I heart you, twitter.

Every day, I come downstairs with my children in the morning. The TV is turned on, and more often than not, we tune in to CBeebies. I like it. It's doable. Interesting snippets. Fun programmes.

And obviously, because I'm such a good mom, it makes for an awesome baby-sitter.

And when I really started to enjoy CBeebies over the summer, whiling away the hours waiting for Isaac to get his ass out, I really got into this.

Awesome. I love to get up on my feet and dance to random crazy stuff anyway, but I LOVED jigging to this with Noah. It's a great idea. I never knew they did seasonal songs. I thought it was a one-off until THIS came along.

The. SHIZZLE. Right down to the crazy Vivaldi shit in the middle. A lot of people wouldn't spot it but I thought it was plain frigging genius.

So obviously, I was all, "Omfg I cannot WAIT to see what they come up with for winter/Christmas.

And then it arrived.

I have a few questions.

1: Why the fuck are they singing/mumbling Christmas crap outside an office block?
2: What the fuck is with the ridiculously fake snow?
3: Why can none of them dance in time to the music?
4: What the hell are they singing?
5: Why do the presenters look like they have ice poles shoved up their asses, prompting those shit-scary grins?
6: Why would you be in a hot air balloon in the middle of (all be it, FAKE) winter?
7: What are they singing?
8: did the presenters have to go for therapy after making this?

CBeebies - you need to get your shit together.
So yes, I met Gordon Ramsay last weekend. I've had an un-dying fixation with him for some time, and going to his book signing at the BBC Good Food Show made me a rather happy lady. Cos you know, HOTNESS.

I decided that the greatest moment came when, whilst waiting in the queue, I realised that my boobs had grown significantly throughout the day; we obviously didn't have Noah or Isaac with us, so I was sporting some fucking awesome cleavage. Seriously? Nursing? AWESOME.

My turn finally came, and as some dude took the two books off me to be signed, I thrust everything else (camera) at D, double checked the boobs, threw myself across the counter to shake his hand and kiss him, then realised I was sporting some fantastic pit-sweat patches.

Life had reached an all time high.

He asked me some questions. Unfortunately, the guy chose not to ask me the questions I had expected him to ask me (What's your favourite dish to cook? Is that your husband? Are your boobs real? Do you like it rough?).

He asked me about Christmas dinner.

Me: Um, I think I'm cooking ham this year!

GR: Ham! Ooh, roast honey glazed?

Me: Um no...

GR: Oh...you're gonna boil it? (looking at my boobs)

Me: Umm..yeah ok... (I'm actually roasting it)

GR: Who you got round for Christmas dinner then? The whole family? (squinting at my boobs)

Me: No it's just me, husband and the two kids. 2 years and 6 months.

GR: 6 months? Congratulations, fantastic. You look great for it! (to my boobs)

Me: Thanks! (pop the boobs a little)

I don't remember much else, apart from saying thank you umpteen million times and flinging myself over the counter to kiss him. Again.

I know the general argument is he's an arrogant fucker with attitude, a foul mouth and not the best personality in the world. And you'd sooner go for Jamie Oliver. But seriously. You just know Jamie Oliver wouldn't know how to take you roughly in a swanky hotel just yards from a fucking fancy restaurant.

Yeeeesssssss please.

D and I moved on to the Beer Tasting Arena, to ponder over the loveliness that is cleavage.

And yes this was taken, by D, in the middle of the Arena. With two lovely little ladies who were sat at our table, whom we hope to meet again next year.

"Book signing, dumb answers and awesome boobs. DONE."

(PS I know most of you hate him. But I'll be his bitch any day.)

(PPS He spoke to my boobs through a good deal of the time I was stood there. Can you blame the guy?)
I love driving. So very much. Hell I'd drive to the end of the road just to get to drive. I've only been driving for about 5/6 years. I passed my test with great results. I did my Pass Plus with no problems. I don't profess to be the worlds best, but I'm not bad.

But people? There are rules. And the rules seem to apply to all the fucktards out there.

If I am driving past your junction, DO NOT pull out in front of me at the last minute, assuming I will slow down and/or stop. I will sit on your fucktard ass until you piss off out the way.

I will only sit on your ass if you drive like a fucktard in front of me.

If you choose to climb inside my ass while driving like a fucktard when I have done nothing to you, I will randomly jump on my breaks making you screech to a halt and shit your pants.

If you still choose to sit on my ass like a fucktard, I will probably let in an awful lot of people in front of me.

If I let you out and instead you choose to sit there like a fucktard, then complain when I drive on, I will most likely ignore you. No amount of flashing your lights or pointless hand gestures will change my behaviour. I WAS BEING NICE. You were being a fucktard.

If I am pulling out of somewhere and you try to overtake me whilst doing so, you are being a fucktard. Stop.

And don't say thank you like I let you out even when you gave me no choice. That's just being a fucktard.

All of these events occurred when I took it upon myself to leave the house with the boys and try to finish my Christmas shopping. Which, by the way, should only ever be done online. At Amazon. There are people who will totally agree with me. (Ok, A person, but I'm sure there are more). You know what? Don't be a fucktard with the driving mom who is feeling pissy and stabby anyways.

You're welcome.
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For some reason, last weekend, my supremely random thought was this:

And after a lovely friend of mine (and I do mean that) said this:

And I got to thinking this:

It pretty much progressed into this:

At this point I noticed he WAS at twitter, tweeting away.

Desperation made me tweet this:

I wondered if the truth might be this:

But figured part of the truth was this:

And annoyingly I noticed I miss-spelled this:

And so I got pissed off and said this:

After about half an hour, I felt the need for this:

And still tweeting darts and ignoring me lead me to this:

My follower numbers prompted this:

In case he thought I was whacko, I said this:

And honesty is responsible for this:

And desperation is responsible for this:

I decided he WAS mocking me with this:

But then suddenly, this:

I was so pleased I couldn't help this:

And all? For this.